Terrorscape (Horrorscape) Page 16

  His fingers laced with hers and he began to walk at a brisk pace that had her stumbling to keep up. At length she said, “Where are we going?”

  He didn't answer. The receptionist wouldn't look at her as they walked in. Val kept her eyes on the slate-gray tiles and tried to focus on breathing. Gavin chose the elevator. She jumped when the doors slid closed and heard him chuckle quietly.

  The door swung open with a creak that made her jump. When he closed it behind him, she felt as if he had chopped off a limb. He walked to his bed and sat down on the edge. He kicked off his boots. She watched him warily. He was clothed. That was good. She thought she could look at him if he were clothed. But she did not get the opportunity to show her scanty attempt at strength.

  “Lock the door.”

  Val swallowed and fixed the deadbolt.

  “Come here.”

  She stopped a foot away from him, refusing to let

  herself be fooled. He regarded her through half-shut eyes, a flickering examination that nonetheless managed to make her feel degraded. “You aren't wearing your necklace.”

  It took her a moment to remember. Her fingers ran down her throat. “I was asleep.” “I don't recall giving you permission to take it off.”

  “But—”

  “You will never take it off,” he said. “Ever. Now strip.”

  Her eyes flew open wide, “what?”

  “Your clothes. Take them off.”

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  Afterward, she lay there numb, exhausted, and unable to move. “You were holding back.” Val turned her head on the pillow to look at him. He was still fully dressed, while she was naked. She felt the inequality of that as strongly as a brand; it made her reach for the sheets. He pushed her hand away. “With you are with me, you will hide nothing.”

  She nodded. “Nothing.” He lapped the last bead of wine from her throat, his tongue still chilled from the ice. When he kissed her she could taste him, and herself, and the wine on his tongue. He cupped one of her breasts in his hand, squeezing lightly. “Is that clear?”

  “Yes.” “See that you don't forget again.” Without looking away, he plucked one of the melting pieces of ice from the pail beside the bed and slid it past his lips. She could hear the click of it against his teeth. “Or I'll remind you.”

  With a feline curl to his mouth, he spat out the ice and lowered his head to press a kiss that was both hot and cold between her legs. Her muscles tensed and she immediately tried to bolt upright, but his firm grip kept her legs spread as he ran his icy tongue along the ridge of bundled nerves that made sparks explode behind her eyes, and turned her limbs to jelly.

  He was very good at hurting her; sometimes, he didn't even have to break the skin.

  Val came with a soft, keening sound that was halfwhimper, half-sob. Usually, that made him stop, but he continued that slow methodical torture, liquefying her insides, shortening her breath. Her fingers were claws hooked in the sheets. Each time, she was sure, a little part of her died. She tried to speak his name, but the words were hooks, too, being pulled down her throat by fishing line, both choking her and drawing blood.

  When she thought she would not be able to stand it any longer he pulled away. He watched her sweatsoaked body tremble from the aftershocks that were his doing and licked his fingers. Then, patting her cheek with that same hand as to make her flinch, he said, “Clean yourself up.”

  He had never offered before. He enjoyed sending her home the way she was, with the residue of his touch coating her like a thin layer of grime. She hated how shameful it made her feel. Remembering, Val hesitated only a moment before disappearing into the bathroom.

  If it was something terrible, she could not see it, and with his foresight it was pointless to try and avoid it anyway. At least the water was warm. More cleansing that way, like disinfectant. It could be hers. But the soap was his, all his, cold and viscous and smelling of sandalwood.

  She shivered with loathing. When she came out of the bathroom clad in nothing more than a towel she discovered that Gavin had taken the opportunity to dispose of her clothes, leaving her with little choice to don whatever he had brought for her. He seemed to be laughing at her silently as he went into the bathroom to shave, leaving her with a small window of privacy to dress herself, quickly.

  I hope he cuts his throat , she thought, yanking on the jeans. I hope he slices into one of the veins. That the blood spurts out onto the mirror, the walls, and everything; I hope he dies.

  The white tank top was snug, tight, and cut low. He had bought a forest green cardigan to go with it that felt like cashmere and probably was. The outfit looked good—of course it did, he had an eye for color —and the green of the sweater matched her eyes perfectly.

  “It's real wool.” He appeared in the mirror behind her, naked now from the waist up. He was one of those men who shaved bare-chested so as not to drip the lather on his shirt. His beard had been tamed to a fashionable shadow around his chin and mouth. He smelled like the sandalwood soap, and it was even stronger fresh.

  “A wolf in sheep's clothing,” she murmured. “You are many things, my dear, but a wolf is not one of them.” She stumbled a little when his hands slid under her arms, wrapping around her midsection as he embraced her from behind like a lover. Which, she realized sickeningly, she supposed he was. “Nor a lamb, either,” he said absently.

  “Then what?”

  “Hmm?”

  “What am I?”

  “A fox, perhaps. Yes. They are predators, preyed upon by man and wolf alike. And they, too, are black —” he tucked her hair behind her ear, stroking the skin beneath it with the pad of his thumb “—and white—” he leaned down, so the last word was a scarcely audible purr, “—and red.”

  She flushed, and his laughter rumbled along her back. He looked normal when he laughed. Almost. Yes, it softened his face and warmed the eyes. But that was an illusion like so much else.

  “What about my clue?”

  “Savior.”

  That was it? That was the clue she was supposed to use to solve a puzzle that would save a life? That was what she labored for?

  She felt him smile against her neck.

  “See you in three days, vixen mine.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Rhododendron The dorm was empty when Val arrived back, much to her relief. It was around 7 P.M. If Mary was gone long enough she could attempt to pass off her absence as an excursion downtown. Shopping, maybe —or dining out. Not that Mary would believe her.

  (You're always here whenever I come home unless you're at school or something and then you just come right back. You never go anywhere.)

  People pretended it was her that they cared about, but it all came down to self-preservation in the end. Unadulterated altruism was a thing of legend. Even if people helped because it made them feel good, that was still self-motivated at heart.

  Thinking about Mary and her attempts to “help” filled her with a sad, helpless rage. She didn't want to be a project, or an object of sympathy. She just wanted to be left alone. What she wanted was companionable solitude. Et tu, Brute?

  Running errands. That was dry enough. Utilitarian. Mary ought to accept that. Val hoped she did, anyway; she couldn't stand another intervention.

  If I have to work this hard at pretending to be normal, what does that make me?

  Stupid question. A freak, obviously. Her cell phone chose that moment to ring. The horrible thing seemed to have a preternatural sense for catching her with her head down. She looked at the display with dread but it wasn't Lisa's number. She didn't recognize this one. That meant nothing, and it didn't mean it wasn't him.

  She sighed. “Hello?”

  “I know you're alone.”

  The words were like something out of a B-rated horror movie.

  Not Gavin.

  Probably some old pervert. But her hand was shaking. That was one thing that escaped translation in horror movies; everything was so much more frightening in
real life.

  “Fuck off,” she said.

  “Is that any old way to great an old friend Valerian?”

  Val froze. “Who is this? How did you get this number?”

  “I'm the man who's going to kill you—and that's all you need to know.”

  The world ground to a halt. “What?” There was a brief sound that might have been laughter. “You heard.”

  And then the line disconnected.

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  “Alex, I'm serious. The girl needs friends. Not just a boyfriend, but actual friends.”

  “What are you? Chopped liver?” A Hitchcock movie was playing on the TV but neither Alex nor Mary were watching it. Mary tugged at one of her bracelets, playing with the stretchy plastic material. “I think I'm the only friend she has.”

  Alex shook his head. “This is college, Mare. If she doesn't have any friends there's a damn good reason. She's a freak.”

  “That's a horrible thing to say!” “It's true, though. Didn't you say she never leaves her room practically? That's pretty fucked-up right there. And then what happened with Jade? Did she freeze his cock off with that ice queen act?”

  “I haven't heard from him in a while,” Mary lied. “I'm not surprised.”

  “Jade isn't like that.”

  “You're delusional.”

  Alex didn't live with Val. He couldn't see how she looked all the time, as if the world were coming to an end around her and she was powerless to stop it.

  “She's so unhappy.”

  “So send her to a psychiatrist.”

  “I don't think she would like that.”

  “Crazy people never think they're crazy. Proof

  that she's completely off her rocker.”

  “Maybe we should have another party.”

  “Jesus Christ. Another one? I'm still cleaning up the beer cans from the last one.”

  Mary pointedly eyed his dorm, which he shared with three other boys. “I don't see a real difference.” “Not my fault these jizz-rags can't locate the fucking trashcan.” Alex raked back his blonde hair so that a small diamond stud caught the light. “Look, I'll think about, all right?”

  He leaned in and Mary pushed him away. “I was thinking this Friday.” “Didn't somebody call the cops at that last one?” “Not ours.”

  “Aren't you worried about drugs?”

  “It'll be a small party.”

  “There's no such thing as a small party.” He framed the words in air quotes, in case it wasn't clear enough that he was mocking her.

  “We can have it at your dorm since you're so concerned about ours.”

  “Why are you so set on this?” “Because I'm worried about Val. I told you before, she's spending too much time alone. That's the last thing she should be doing right now, especially when she looks so depressed.”

  It annoyed her. Val was always there, as permanent a fixture in the room as the bed or the lamp. Staring absently into space with that hangdog look. Never mind that she sometimes felt like being alone. That she had times when she was also upset, and had to hold it in, and tiptoe around Val so as not to upset her further.

  And yes, Mary was a little worried, too. Who was to say that Val wasn't crazy? That she wouldn't snap one day and open fire, turning Halcyon University into another Columbine or Virginia Tech?

  She certainly fit the profile.

  At least if Val was out of the dorm, doing things, living her life, Mary would be less likely to be around her when everything inevitably went to hell. Alex sighed. It wasn't a particularly disagreeable sigh and Mary leaped in for the kill.

  “Do you know any people who'd be good to invite?”

  “Fuck, I don't know. Brian Murphy, maybe. Or Vance Benveniste.”

  “Benveniste? That sounds familiar—doesn't he go to this school?”

  “I don't think so. But he's a real party guy. Has his own apartment and everything.” “He's not some old dude, is he?” Mary scrunched up her nose. “What does he look like?”

  “I don't know. I'm not queer. I don't notice that shit.”

  “What does he look like?” Mary repeated. “He has a face, doesn't he?”

  “God, you're so—” he shook his head “—tall, dark hair, eyes that are some color…maybe blue.” “Is he cute?”

  “He has a sister. Now she's cute.”

  “Good. Invite him—and her too,” she conceded reluctantly. “They sound perfect.”

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪ Val tried to take notes but her professor's voice swam in and out of focus. She was afraid someone would notice what felt so painfully obvious to her. That it was inscribed in every breath, every movement, every fiber of her being. Whenever a pair of eyes happened in her direction, her body braced itself for the accusation until they moved on. Then she collapsed in relief only to have the cycle begin anew.

  Nobody is looking at you.

  No, that wasn't quite true. The professor was.

  “Do you think you could save your music appreciation for another time, Mr. Winters? I believe the school offers a class for it. In the meantime, please refrain from using your headphones during my lectures.”

  He was looking behind her. Val sighed in relief. “There are ten personality disorders arranged in three clusters within Hendricks continued. the DSM-IV,” Professor

  He had a droning voice, probably because of his age, and even though the class was interesting it put a lot of people to sleep. His eyes roved, searching for another victim in that student foolish enough to take a quick snooze or munch from a chip bag.

  Val stared down at her textbook. On the right hand corner she had sketched a grid that looked suspiciously like a chessboard. She erased it guiltily.

  What are you thinking? Professor Hendricks clicked his remote and the projector switched to a slide with the masks of Comedy and Tragedy. Over the masks were the words “Cluster B”, written in Gothic font.

  “Today we're going to focus on the personality disorders, with behaviors classified as dramatic, emotional, and erratic. There are a multitude of symptoms, some of which you may recognize within yourself, but I strongly advise against checking yourself into the nearest institution just yet….”

  A few people laughed obligingly. Val, thinking of her own checkered mental history, remained in tightlipped silence.

  “First we will cover borderline personality disorder. People afflicted with borderline personality disorder often report feeling empty inside. It is as if they are an emotional cup that can never be fully filled, try as they might.

  “They have intense relationships which tend to be very black and white. Very 'all or nothing.' Anything less than absolute devotion is pure hatred. There is no middle ground, no gray areas.”

  “Sounds like my ex-girlfriend,” muttered one of the boys behind Val, eliciting a laugh from his friends. “Excuse me, but I thought I made it quite clear that this lecture material is not intended for providing diagnoses, Mr. Chemmanoor.”

  The boy muttered a half-convincing apology. Professor Hendricks nodded curtly and continued on to discuss histrionic and narcissistic personality disorders, pausing to point out the many similarities between the two, and how to differentiate between them.

  This was in the book. She had been through it, highlighting the pertinent information. Twice. “How many of you have ever been called antisocial?”

  Fabric rustled as a few students raised their hands. Val kept hers between her thighs. “That's what I thought.” He cleared his throat. “The correct term for you folks, who I assume are merely shy, is actually asocial—that is, somebody who is indifferent to or exists separately from society. This is an individual who spends a lot of time alone engaging in solitary activities. Such traits are generally considered relatively normal on the vast continuum comprising human behavior.

  “Antisocial behavior consists of markedly different behavioral patterns. Often criminal, though not always. They may be disingenuous, selfish, pathologically exploitative. Somebody who is anti
social may not be shy at all. Quite the opposite. Many antisocial individuals appear very social and charming at a glance. They also tend to be quite successful with the opposite sex.

  “However, the antisocial personality is not someone you would want as a romantic partner or spouse. This is an individual who has no qualms about going against societal norms to preserve their own self-interests. To them, other people are simply a means to an end. These people lack empathy and a true sense of conscience—at least in the way that we understand it. You may be familiar with the term of sociopath. It is an obsolete term but refers to this diagnosis.

  “The symptoms of antisocial personality disorder consist of pathological lying, narcissism, superficial relationships, impulsiveness, thrill-seeking or risktaking behaviors, promiscuity, profound lack of empathy, and a disregard for their own personal safety and the safety of others, in addition to societal norms, as I mentioned earlier.

  “Given these traits, it may not surprise you that many criminals are often diagnosed as having antisocial personality disorder. Indeed, the greatest proportion of violent crimes are committed by a relatively small percentage of individuals, mostly those with antisocial personality disorder—yes? Question in the back?”

  Val heard a female voice say, “What percentage of people in normally functioning populations have it?” “What is normal?” he said wryly.

  The female student flushed.

  “Just something to keep in mind. To answer your question, one percent.” Professor Hendricks smiled. “However, as with most mental health disorders, the severity of the symptoms exists on a continuum.

  “It is actually very interesting that you chose to refer to a 'normal population' as it is true that many sociopaths are able to mimic socially acceptable behavior and function in society, even having jobs, going to religious services, and starting families.

  “Antisocial personalities are a mystery to us. It is difficult to fathom a style of perception so different from our own. We know so little about the so-called normal brain….” He trailed off. “From what we do know about neuroanatomy, people with antisocial personality disorder appear to have fewer neural connections in their limbic system and frontal lobes, the areas of the brain chiefly responsible for emotion and executive functions, respectively. They also have suppressed nervous systems; they tend to maintain prolonged eye contact without the feelings of anxiety or discomfort that others tend to exhibit. When exposed to loud and sudden stimuli a startle response is often absent.